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The only questions now arehowandwhy?
“Chet’s still into that stupid modern-day Robin Hood schtick, huh?”
Something defensive sparks in my chest. “It’s not stupid,” I retort hotly. “It’s honorable. We only steal from—”
“Other criminals,” he finishes for me, waving one hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Who was the target this time?”
“Ronaldo Bianchi. He has a stolen Picasso in his private collection back in Paris.”
Gabriel whistles, a flicker of recognition behind his dark green eyes. “Bianchi? I didn’t know that the bastard made it out of Sicily after the whole Altegro fiasco…”
My mind reels. He really knows his stuff. Who the hell is this guy? At first, I think he has to be some sort of cop. Ronaldo Bianchi is the type of big bad whose name only circulates in the most secure of circles —those of his own people and those trying to catch him. But then I think better of it. Dad would never send me willingly to the home of a law enforcement officer.
Maybe he’s a fellow thief, then? Dad has no shortage of ‘business’ contacts, after all.
The more I think about it, the less that makes sense. He’s too… put together. Toonormal, what with his big house and fancy suit and the general lack of any chaotic air about him. Most thieves I’ve met are all skittish creatures —myself included— eyes always darting around to locate the nearest exit while keeping running totals of all the luxury goods within arm’s reach. Our jittery quality may not manifest in overt physical movements, but our eyes are usually our biggest tell.
Alert, scheming.Surviving.
This guy? He’s staring right at me like I’m the only object in the room, unwavering.
“I answered your questions,” I state firmly. “Now answer mine.”
He cocks his head to the side, his gaze drifting over me steadily. “All you need to know is that this is a secure location,” he says, deep voice like distant thunder. “Chet’s called in a favor, and I think it’s to keep you safe until he can make contact.”
“But why? Who are you to him?”
Gabriel stands from his seat, his eyes still lingering on me. There’s something almost… hungryabout the way he looks at me. It’s a blink and you miss it sort of thing, though, because the next moment he’s turning away to leave.
“Nobody important,” he answers.
I huff. “You do realize that only makes me more curious, right?”
“There are a few rules you need to follow while you’re here.”
Is he ignoring me?
“Like what?”
“You’re not permitted to go outside.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t be getting very far without pants.”
He shoots me a glare. “You’re also not allowed to wander around the house. You’ll stay in this room. You’re permitted to use the attached bathroom just over there.”
I frown. “This is starting to sound less like a safehouse and more like a prison. How am I supposed to eat?”
“Meals will be delivered to you.”
“Yep. Definitely a prison.”
“You’ve clearly never seen the inside of a cell.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Becausethisis the lap of luxury in comparison. If you’re really Chet’s daughter, then I’ll spare no expense in ensuring your comfort. I will, however, insist that you remain in this room and this room only.”
“Why?” I challenge. “Got something to hide?”
